


Ride The Lightning

by socknonny



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But like really small, Camboy!Billy Hargrove, Camboy!Steve Harrington, Cybersex, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity, Sex Cam worker, Sex Work, so small you could blink and miss it maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socknonny/pseuds/socknonny
Summary: Steve has an epic plan to Get Back At Daddy after his parents don't embrace his new-found bisexuality. An epic, epic plan, inspired by his favorite camboy. There's no way this can go wrong.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 43
Kudos: 467
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2019, Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	Ride The Lightning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turbocharge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turbocharge/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Turbocharge!! I hope you enjoy this gift <3 I tried to include all the things you liked in it, and did some sneaky snooping in your bookmarks and kudos to make sure the other things I included weren't squicks. Really hope I hit the mark!
> 
> Thanks so much to b for flailing and beta-reading this for me <33333

Steve double checks the lock on his dorm and opens his laptop. His dick is already hard, and he’s so fucking glad Tommy is the kind of jackass who parties on a Tuesday. If he weren’t, Steve’s only option would be a pathetic jerk-off in the middle of the night, hoping Tommy didn’t hear, or going out to get laid. And… yeah. Steve has better plans than that.

He scrolls through the first couple of pages on Google, incognito mode allowing him a false sense of security, until he lands on something he likes. He goes to the website and starts scrolling through the categories, unsure exactly what he’s searching for.

His mouse lands on a category that makes his stomach flip. Live camboys. Weekly shows. 

He clicks the link. Gets his dick in his hand and idly begins to stroke while he checks through each profile. He’s never… he’s never done this before. But God, ever since Tommy made that ridiculous fucking prank—blaring porn over the unprotected wireless projector in their Psych lecture, he can’t stop thinking about it. The guy hadn’t even been properly visible, only the line of hard abs and a few curls dropping across his chin. It didn’t matter. Steve remembers the soft gasps, the tightening of those abs as his dick filled out impossibly bigger and he came all over his chest.

It was only a few seconds, but he hasn’t been able to get the image out of his head.

Steve stops scrolling and his dick leaps in approval. It’s not the same guy, but he’s similar. Better.  _ And _ Steve can see his face.

God, Steve can’t look away. He’s like that actor in St Elmo’s Fire, Rob or something. Fuck, Steve never realised until this second how much he liked that guy. He should watch that movie again.

There’s a lot Steve didn’t realise until this very second, and he can’t believe he has Tommy’s dumbass prank to thank for the cookie crumb trail that led him here.

His hand starts to move of its own accord, slow and achingly good. He clicks the latest video and watches the guy— _ RideTheLightning _ —drop down onto his bed. The room is dark, curtains closed, but it doesn’t hide the shit-eating grin the guy directs at the camera. Without looking away, the guy slides his hand low beneath the elastic of his shorts, grips himself and—doesn’t stroke, no, that’s too boring apparently—fucking  _ thrusts _ up into his hand. Tiny movements, while his face slackens and his mouth drops open. 

Steve can’t help it; he moans.

“Bet you like the look of this, don’t you, sweetheart?” The guy’s voice is deep, rasping, and honestly Steve almost comes from that alone. He’s talking to the audience like this is real, like he cares, and it should be cheesy as shit—just a gimmick for higher tips—but it  _ works _ . “You want me to take them off?” He pauses, like he’s waiting for an answer, staring the camera down. Licks his fucking lips. “Yeah, you do,” he says with another grin.

Steve doesn’t even realise he’s whispering  _ yes  _ until Lightning’s got his basketball shorts all the way off. His dick bounces, proud against his stomach, and Lightning doesn’t ask this time before he rips off his singlet and throws it at the camera. And winks.

The singlet catches on the corner and hangs there, the top of the view and part of the side obscured, and Steve realises slowly that Lightning isn’t going to move it. Probably wouldn’t move it even if it fully covered the view, would just moan and fill the room with those wet fucking slaps while his viewers got more and more frustrated and horny.

The guy is so fucking cocky. 

Steve has never been more turned on in his life.

Lightning’s hand speeds up, and the singlet only covers part of his shin in the view, so Steve’s got perfect sight of the guy’s rock hard abs. And not just that; Lightning’s thighs are so fucking built. Steve might be a little new to this, but he knows with absolute certainty that he wants those thighs to crush his face while he chokes on Lightning’s dick. 

Steve’s never seen anything like this guy in person, ever. Not that this is in person, but the way Lightning keeps  _ looking  _ at him and moaning sure makes it feel like it is.

It’s a quick vid, not live, and Steve flicks his mouse down to the bottom of the screen to check how close he is to the end. When he sees there’s only one minute left, he whimpers, slows down his strokes. He wants to come at the same time as Lightning, is already so close he doesn’t even know if he can. It’s pathetic. He loves it.

Lightning arches off the bed a few inches, thighs clenched, and Steve speeds up again. The room fills with the wet sounds of Steve’s hand, the rough gasp of his voice as he chants  _ ohgodohgod  _ again and again. He expects Lightning to throw another wink at the camera, do something cocky, but he doesn’t. His head drops back into the pillow, and he tips his face sideways, mouths at the pillow almost unconsciously like he wants to bite it. Like he’s used to biting it.

Steve imagines being there on that bed with him, sliding in between Lightning’s thighs and fucking him so hard he forgets to perform, just throws his head back and comes over his own chest, lost to the sensation.

Like he’s doing right now.

Steve cries out, way too fucking loud for a dorm room, and spills over into his hand, his shirt, the fucking bedspread beneath him. It’s gross. It’s fucked up.

He can’t wait to do it again.

*

Steve goes home for the summer. First year was… fine. It was fine. Nothing great, but he’s passing all his classes which is a damn sight better than he did in high school. He’s feeling good, confident in himself, a little more sure who he is with each passing day. So he comes out to his parents as bisexual. Because it’s twenty nineteen and this shit shouldn’t matter.

It turns out, it does matter. But his parents are too proper to kick him out of the house, so instead they just cut off his credit card and stonewall him, and Steve suddenly goes from being the popular guy everyone wants to know to being some fucking asshole with nothing to offer. His parents won’t even look at him, after too many arguments that it  _ isn’t a phase  _ and it  _ does exist _ and  _ what the fuck is the problem with guys fucking guys anyway? _

That last one gets him sent to his bedroom for being crass, like he’s some thirteen year old boy in need of punishment. Still, he goes, because he doesn’t want to be there anyway, and because if he’s in his room he can stick one final finger up at his parents in the best way his dumbass brain knows how.

He searches for Lightning again. His parents are downstairs—his mom watching television, his dad in the den—and his bedroom door is locked and he has wireless headphones, and fuck his homophobic, biphobic parents, honestly. Steve kicks the covers to the end of the bed, undoes his jeans, and starts scrolling through Lightning’s feed. He takes his time, hovering his mouse over a few old vids so the preview scrolls through, jerks himself slowly to a few glimpses of abs and cock.

Something catches Steve’s attention near the top of the page, and he looks up. His breath hitches. The live button at the top of his profile is flashing. His eyes flick to the door, somehow nervous as if this is any different to what he was already planning to do. Somehow it is. It feels like he has a guy  _ in  _ his bedroom, minutes after his parents cut him off for the suggestion of wanting one.

His dick is already hard at the thought, and he doesn’t have to question it. He logs into the room—username,  _ Thunderstruck _ , because he can’t help himself, and he might not be a big fan of Tommy’s sort of music but who doesn’t like AC/DC—and gapes at the sight of Lightning sitting completely naked on a wooden chair. His long blond curls aren’t drawn up in a bun this time. Instead, they hang loose, just below his shoulders, and Steve suddenly longs to twist his fingers in them and pull.

Lightning grins at the camera, idly stroking himself. “Hi there,” he says, twisting his hand and dropping his head back with a moan. “You’re just in time.”

Steve knows it’s a part, knows Lightning is only saying it because it’s less than thirty seconds since he went live and he’ll get more tips if he makes the initial influx of viewers feel like it’s  _ personal. _ He knows this, but it still works.

Not just for him, apparently. Steve watches the tips come pouring into the chat screen, watches the names flood the page. For a minute, his attention is riveted on the things they’re saying—lewd, dirty shit that Steve wouldn’t dream of saying even to a stranger.  _ Especially  _ to a stranger.

Every now and then, Lightning’s eyes drop to somewhere near the camera, where Steve guesses he can see the chat, and he chuckles. But he never answers them. Steve doesn’t know if that’s normal—he has nothing to compare this to—but it seems strange. He would have thought camboys would get more tips if they made a few people feel special, made every other person  _ hope  _ they had a chance of feeling special.

Steve slides his mouse across to the tip button, and then realises he can’t use his credit cards anymore. Jesus Fucking Christ. He silently vows to fix that first thing tomorrow.

Lightning’s deep rumble interrupts his thoughts. “It’s just a quick one tonight, boys and girls,” he says softly. “Something extra for you while my asshole roommate is out chasing tail he doesn’t deserve.” Lightning twists his hand over his dick, at the same time thrusting up into it. Then he grins. “Want to make it a race?”

Steve nearly wins right then.

The chat explodes with people egging Lightning on, telling him what they’d do to him, thousands of water droplet emojis because God forbid horny people have class. Steve blushes just reading what they say to Lightning. But the guy just laughs, tips his head further back, and speeds up.

The sheer arrogance ignites something under Steve’s skin, and he’s leaning forward before he knows it, shifting his left hand to the keyboard to type. It’s not like he needs to focus on what he’s doing; he’s going to beat Lightning without trying. He doesn’t send Lightning a dirty message, though. No, instead, he taunts him, because apparently Steve has to be the weirdo in a room full of other fucking weirdos.

_ Anyone can win if they’re going at it like they’re fucking behind the bleachers. _

Steve types slowly, somehow avoiding mistakes, and hits send before he can think it over. He doesn’t expect Lightning to see it, doesn’t expect it to do anything. It’s just something he does because he has this indescribable urge, not to knock Lightning down a peg—Steve likes him up there, after all—but just to remind him there are other people on that level as well.

Lightning lifts his head and peers at the screen. Then, he chuckles, low and deep. “Nice name.” 

Fuck. Is he talking to Steve? He can’t be talking to Steve. Lightning doesn’t talk to anyone. What the hell is going  _ on _ ?

Then, he fucking  _ slows down _ . Like he saw what Steve said. Like he  _ listened _ . Which would be more than enough to send Steve over the edge, except then he says, “You can fuck me behind the bleachers, if you want.” And he spreads his legs, just a little.

The chat goes wild. They must not realize he’s talking to Steve; the screen moves too quickly for anyone to have noticed a random comment by some asshole. The only asshole who isn’t kissing the ground Lightning walks on, apparently. But they love Lightning’s suggestion, love thinking it’s for them.

Steve is the only one who knows it really  _ is  _ for him. It’s not real, sure, and it means nothing, but it’s for  _ him _ .

He bites down on the knuckles of his left hand, his right speeding up, faster, filling the room with wet sounds as he gets closer and closer. On the screen, Lightning has slowed down, is practically teasing himself. But still his thighs clench, and he lifts himself off the chair, arching backwards, and moans so fucking long and low Steve almost doesn’t realize Lightning is coming, coming all through the slowest, most agonizing slide of hand on cock Steve has ever witnessed.

Steve looks down, his own dick still painfully hard in his hand, seconds from release and spilling over now that Lightning’s desperate expression is locked firmly in his mind, and sees that Lightning won.

A chuckle makes Steve look up just as Lightning flicks off the camera, eyes fixed on the lens. For a second, he pretends Lightning is looking straight at him.

*

Steve isn’t an idiot. He knows this has the danger of becoming unhealthy. So, he makes the decision, while in the midst of an epically stupid drunken brainstorming session to Get Back At Daddy, and try it out himself. Being a camboy. Fucking himself on camera for tips.

Because that evens the playing field, right? If he knows what it’s like, he won’t become another creepy fan thinking paid fantasy is real. It’ll destroy the illusion.

And fuck, would his dad be pissed if he knew. It gives Steve a high just thinking about it. 

“What the hell did you just think up, dingus?” Robin throws a fry at his head, staring at him with wide eyes. “Whatever it is, stop it. It’s a bad idea.”

“Oh, no,” Steve mutters, leaning a little further back in the couch cushions and taking another swig from his beer. “It’s a  _ brilliant  _ idea.”

So, he sets up an account, applies for a new credit card, and… freezes. His phone screen stares back at him, Steve in full view, and he thinks  _ have I always looked like this?  _ Every selfie he’s ever taken is thrown into new light, and he takes fifteen whole minutes to mess with the background.

He changes the pillows, fluffs up the bedding, moves the lamp on his table around, then proceeds to have a small, intense crisis that maybe he doesn’t have the personality for this because he’s  _ worried about the fucking decor _ .

Then, he shakes his head, plants his hands on his hips, and surveys the room with fresh eyes. This is… a lot. But just the thought of being on  _ display  _ for people is making him hard. He’s always kind of been an exhibitionist, loved getting girls to blow him beneath the stands after games, fast and dirty because the fear of being caught was so real. Loved spreading them open with the sound of people moving overhead, the chance of someone looking down and seeing them at any second. He thought what he loved about it was the girl’s reactions—the giggles, the incredulity, the moment they decided to go for it. How they always loved it when they did.

But maybe it wasn’t about the girls. Maybe it was about him. Maybe it was about the way  _ he  _ felt when he looked up at the light streaming between the stands and caught glimpses of people he knew. Once, he even locked eyes with someone. He didn’t know them, but he’s never forgotten the whiplash of shock on the guy’s face as he registered what he was seeing, the sudden grin as he nudged his buddy and pointed through the gap at their feet.

Steve had winked at them, caressed the girl’s hair so that it shielded her face, because he wasn’t sure if after all her bravado she really did want to get caught, and then closed his eyes and came. Just from the sight of them. Just from the thought of someone seeing him.

Fuck, maybe this really is a good career move for him.

He throws the bedsheet off the bed, rumples the pillows, and props his phone against the lamp so all they can see is a view of Steve’s chest and thighs. A hint of his face if he slides a bit lower. He’s happy to show his face; he isn’t ashamed of this. But he’s cautious. Doesn’t want people to say it’s a shit face or something. 

He thinks of Lightning, thinks of how fucking hot the guy looks when he’s just sitting there breathing. Screw it. Steve might not be ripped as hell or as cocky as a bloody demigod, but he’s good in bed. He’s damn good in bed. And why on earth shouldn’t he share that?

Steve hits record. He starts slow, hand slipped into the open fly of his jeans, cock barely visible to the camera. If he tilts his head high, he can see what’s recorded without it being obvious that he’s looking, and he takes the opportunity to adjust slightly, see what works on film, see how the light catches his shape and accentuates different parts of his body.

It might just be because he’s horny and riding so much adrenaline from the thought that he’s going to  _ post this  _ that his judgment skills are kind of warped, but he looks good. He looks really damn good. It’s not that he’s ever hated his body, he just knows it isn’t… well, it isn’t Lightning’s. But his dick’s big and his hair’s great and the rest has never mattered. But now, as he looks at his body with a professional eye, wondering what it is someone else might see that will make them come back for more, he finds he actually likes it.

He tilts a little into the lamplight, letting it cut sharp lines from the muscles in his arm, the way they flex as he strokes his dick. Remembering how he loved Lightning messing around with speed, he goes faster, arching up into each stroke, and then slows down again. Notes the way his ragged breathing is visible in his chest and stomach, thinks how hot that would be to watch on someone.

Steve is so into it, he forgets about trying to make his first vid a bit longer, forgets about anything but how good his hand feels. He slides further down the bed, face visible now, and thinks he probably shouldn’t look at the camera anymore because he can’t really get away with that sort of cockiness like Lightning can.

He turns anyway, slanting quick glances as he gets closer and closer. The room is full of the wet sound of his strokes, faster and faster. He imagines people watching him, touching themselves at the same time he does, replaying the vid again and again.

He imagines Lightning watching, and even though it’s fucking stupid, completely impossible, he loses himself in the thought. Tips over the edge so fast he doesn’t even have time to manipulate how it looks, if it’s sexy. Fortunately, when he plays it back and checks he isn’t making a stupid face, so it’s fine. He just looks gone, lost to the pleasure like he’s completely forgotten the camera is there. 

It’s kind of hot, actually; Steve can see that objectively. For the rest of the vid it’s obvious how he’s playing for an audience. It still looks real, sure, but it’s different to the last few seconds, when it’s just Steve.

He cuts the final seconds of him reaching for the phone, uploads it to the site, and watches it post.

*

“Steve, what did we say about phones at the dinner table?” 

His mom regards him sternly, like he’s a child instead of twenty years old and just  _ visiting _ . Surely, guests are allowed to break the rules. He can’t imagine his mom telling off one of his dad’s colleagues for getting a message he doesn’t even check.

Still, he can’t contain his smirk as he switches his phone over to silent, the buzzing ceasing immediately. He may have left it on vibrate intentionally. Might have been wired to see the response to his first vid, to know the notifications would trickle in over dinner, with his dad listening and not having any goddamn clue why his son is suddenly so popular.

Christ, though, he really didn’t expect this kind of response. Did he do something wrong with his notification settings? Is he getting messages for views as well as comments or something? Because there’s no way his first, shitty little vid is blowing up this much.

Except, when he finally makes it away from the dinner table an agonizing twenty minutes later, he finds out that’s exactly what’s happened. His vid is blowing up with likes and comments—apparently showing his face was a good thing, if the lewd shit they’re saying is anything to go by—and Steve can’t figure out why until he sees the little banner down the bottom.

His vid’s been boosted. Some famous camboy—or girl—saw his vid on the latest uploads and boosted it, and for a single, crazy second he thinks it must have been Lightning. Steve scans the page, searching for the name that promoted him to the top page, but then he realizes it’s anonymous and his stomach sinks in disappointment. Even if it was Lightning, he’d never know, and honestly, the thought that it was is just ridiculous. There are hundreds of popular camboys on this site; any one of them could have given him that banner.

Steve sinks back against the pillows and scrolls through the comments. They’re pretty standard; he’s seen them all before on Lightning’s videos. But it’s still gratifying to see them on his own. There are a few that make him grimace, but he scrolls quickly past them, lingering instead on the ones that make a steady flush rise on his chest. Those comments that are less about what they’d do to Steve, and more about… him. His body. What he’s doing to it. How it makes them feel.

And  _ that _ makes Steve feel fucking good.

He’s about to put his phone away, when the last comment he scrolled to catches his eye. It isn’t like the others. Steve stares at it for a solid ten seconds before he starts laughing.

_ your dick’s great fam but what’s with the wallpaper?? _

He doesn’t even think about it before replying. Simply writes  _ clearly I’m not doing my job right if you’re looking at the wallpaper,  _ and sends it before he changes his mind.

His brain catches up to him too late to take it back—he doesn’t know if the guy is still on the page—but he doesn’t sweat it. Posting the vid at all was too much of a high. Nothing is killing that buzz.

So he plugs his phone into the charger and turns out the light, one very clear thought running through his head: he’s definitely doing this again.

*

Steve gets his credit cards sorted the next day, but it’s over a week before he has the chance to use them. His parents insist on a strict social calendar while he’s back home for the summer, building connections that Steve’s dad insists will stand him in good stead after he leaves college. Like Steve gives a shit. Like he doesn’t have a weirdly viable  _ alternative option  _ now.

He’s uploaded three more vids, none of them live yet. With the money from the online data entry gig Robin got him, combined with the tips from his vid, he can pay off the cards without trouble. He’s  _ independent _ .

This knowledge is Steve’s only lifeline when his dad pulls his usual shit one week later.

It should be bearable—just a stupid party with his dad’s work colleagues where Steve is paraded off as the next in line to learn the ropes of the family business. But it’s all Steve’s known. He isn’t a son; he’s a product. Just another cog in the wheel of his father’s machinations. 

Steve escapes the second he can. He thinks about doing his first live vid tonight, just to spite the old man, but he stops with the camera all set up and ready to go. He’s too shaken. Can’t pull off what he needs to do tonight, and he doesn’t want his first show for an audience to be shitty.

So he records a quick vid in front of the bathroom mirror, skin still dripping with water from the shower, hair trailing across his face. He makes all the right expressions, angles himself so his arms look great and his dick looks huge, and by the time it’s uploaded he even feels a little better. Watching the comments come pouring in turns his night from a silent mope-fest into something that almost feels… communal. He isn’t alone. There’s still something missing, but he resolutely ignores that.

It’s the same problem it always is. When Steve is upset, he runs to people, craves their company—their touch. There’s no touch here, no company, and the only person he can run to these days is Robin.

But when he sees the same wallpaper commenter pop up again— _ FeeltheFlames _ —he smiles, self pity forgotten, because this is way too convenient. FeeltheFlames must be a subscriber, despite the apparently horrifying wallpaper, and… that feels kind of good.

Then, the words sink in.

_ Are you selling private shows, pretty boy, or do we gotta make believe? _

Holy shit. FeeltheFlames wants a private show.

A crazy, idiotic thought shoves it’s way into Steve’s head. It’s not the same as what he really wants… FeeltheFlames wouldn’t be here with him, but maybe… maybe it’s enough. Or, maybe FeeltheFlames is just razzing him, doesn’t actually mean it, and Steve would be a naive dumbass to offer.

In the end, he replies,  _ are you paying, big guy?  _ And waits. This could be really stupid. He doesn’t even know how it works; he’s never gone live before, and he thinks it means he’s meant to start the whole thing first—open it to everyone—before going private, but surely he can figure it out quick enough to make sure FeeltheFlames is the one that buys him. If FeeltheFlames is quick enough. Otherwise… maybe he can fake a shitty internet connection and run away? 

Or he can just do this with whoever buys. It’s not like he hates the idea, or like there’s anything special about FeeltheFlames. It’s just… the way he comments. He sounds like a real person instead of a horny asshole, and Steve kind of wants that right now.

He barely has to wait before FeeltheFlames responds:  _ fuck yeah. _

Steve adjusts himself on the bed—he’s still naked, still wet—and pulls his laptop closer. He clicks the green  _ live  _ button, heart pounding, and wonders how many people he’ll have to kick from the chat before FeeltheFlames shows up. If he even will. If Steve will end up giving a show to a room full of strangers when his dick is still soft from minutes before.

Like FeeltheFlames isn’t a stranger anyway.

He doesn’t have time to freak out because suddenly, FeeltheFlames is there. A few other people pop in, but FeeltheFlames has already put in a bid, and Steve accepts it. Doesn’t let anyone else have a chance.

And then he’s there. And FeeltheFlames is there. And this is really happening.

His self-preservation kicks in and the mask he’s spent years perfecting drops across his face—King Steve, in control, in charge. He doesn’t even have to think.

“Hey there, Flames,” he says with a grin, sliding his hand lower to palm himself. “That didn’t take long.”

Steve’s lower half isn’t visible on camera yet, so he hopes this is a tease instead of a let down. But it’s going to take him a few seconds to get hard.

_ Your hair’s wet. _

Steve frowns. “Uh, yeah?” He gives a low chuckle. “You  _ did  _ see the last vid, right?”

_ Didn’t realize it was practically live _ .

Ah. Steve bites back a smile, satisfied that Flames is apparently sufficiently teased. He can practically hear the surprise coming through the screen, the rising desire now that he knows that seconds ago Steve was jerking off in front of the mirror. He wonders if Flames likes being the only person who knows that.

The twitch of Steve’s dick tells him  _ he  _ likes it. Likes the illusion of intimacy, even if he’s painfully aware it is  _ only _ an illusion.

“And now I’m really live,” Steve says, moving the laptop back so he’s fully in view now, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back against the headboard. “Hope the wallpaper isn’t a turn-off for you.”

When he looks up again, after a few seconds of slow stroking, FeeltheFlames has already answered:  _ Literally not possible. _

A jolt of desire courses through him, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. Lets his abs clench and his thighs tense, his mouth dropping open. FeeltheFlames immediately starts typing.

_ Fuck yeah, babe. Do it like that. _

Steve does. He arches his back and thrusts up, and on a particularly incredible thrust, his shoulders knock the headboard back into the wall loud enough to crash.

He freezes, heart racing, eyes fixed to the lock on the door. Waits.

FeeltheFlames types:  _ did you wake up your roommates? _

He must look startled as hell, but inside, Steve is thrilled that someone might have heard. That someone might  _ guess _ . His dad still has at least sixteen guests downstairs, and any one of them could be looking askance at the upper landing right now. Steve licks his lips and turns his eyes back to the camera. The normal thing to do would be to say ‘yes’, to wink, and to make a show of trying to stay quiet.

He doesn’t know why the words that come out of his mouth are: “My parents are downstairs.”

Steve can’t even pretend he doesn’t love that.

_ Holy shit.  _ FeeltheFlames pauses for a few seconds, and then:  _ I thought I had daddy issues. _

A twenty dollar tip comes in, and Steve laughs, giddy with something he can’t name. He shifts so his hips are tilted towards the screen. He’s so fucking close, but he isn’t sure how long this is meant to last, what Flames wants from him. But fuck it, Steve’s the one in charge here.

“Thing is, Flames,” Steve says, wetting his lips and slowing down the motion of his hand. The wet sound of skin against skin still fills the room, even while he goes slow. “My dad keeps trying to turn me into something I’m not.” He laughs, the sound full of delight. “And it would fucking  _ kill  _ him to know what I was doing up here.”

_ You’re a regular rebel _ , Flames says, typing slow, like one hand is very occupied. It’s barely even a conversation, but it does something to Steve’s chest, his heart stammering wildly. This guy gets it. Whoever the fuck he is, he gets it.

“I hope you’re close now, big guy,” Steve says, voice low. “Because we’re coming up to the finish.”

Flames starts typing immediately.  _ Don’t let daddy hear. _

Fuck. Steve comes.

Long seconds later, Steve opens his eyes and sees Flames is still in the chat. He blinks for a second, wondering what the etiquette is here. He hadn’t expected the guy to stick around, but then, maybe he hasn’t finished yet. Maybe Steve is meant to get him off the rest of the way.

He smirks at the screen, ready for some dirty talk, but Flames starts typing.

_ Jokes aside, spite is a fun motivator. But don’t let your old man’s opinion carry any weight. It doesn’t mean shit. _

Steve gapes at the screen, too stunned to even think of a proper response. His mask slips away, and he knows, in that moment, he’s revealing something he never reveals to anyone, not even Robin. He swallows thickly and nods. “Yeah. I won’t.”

_ Thanks for the nut,  _ Flames says and leaves the chat.

Talk about fucking whiplash.

*

The summer blurs into a mess of days that blend into the next. Steve does live shows for an audience of more than one, and he doesn’t open it up for private sessions again. It isn’t that he didn’t like it; it’s the opposite. He liked it a lot. And he likes it even more the further he interacts with Flames in the chat.

Because it turns out, Flames is the camboy who boosted him. Steve just doesn’t know which goddamn camboy he is, because FeeltheFlames is a different account. There are no vids loaded on his profile.

And the more Steve sees of him, the more he wants it to be Lightning. When they talk, he’s picturing Lightning behind the screen, and when he watches Lightning’s vids… yeah. He comes undone. Feels his heart race at the creeping, guilty thought of them doing it together.

In short, Steve is fucked, and he only has himself to blame.

Particularly because Flames' profile is set to Australia, and Lightning's accent is American. So it obviously isn't him, and Steve is pathetic for even hoping.

“What did you do now?” Robin asks, handing over the second ice cream in her hand and settling beside him on the edge of the pool.

“Huh?”

“Come on, spill. You can’t keep it from me. Your face is like an open book.”

Steve groans. There is no way he’s explaining this to Robin. But when he looks over at her, her face is exposed, concerned. So, maybe there’s a way he can explain it  _ a little _ .

“I think I’m falling for someone I shouldn’t.”

“Wow.” Robin stares at him, deadpan. “That is such a unique problem. You must be the only person in the world to have to deal with that.”

Steve knocks her ice cream up into her nose, so it dabs on the end. She laughs and shoves him backwards, wiping it onto the back of her hand and licking it off. “Seriously, though, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve had your heart broken. What’s the big deal?”

“I should’ve seen it coming.”

“Ah.” Robin actually softens a bit. “Tried to avoid it?”

“More like… I thought I could beat it. But I can’t.”

“What’s so special about this person?”

Nothing at all. It has absolutely nothing to do with the person and everything to do with Steve being desperate for someone to look at him and really see him. Ever since the conversation with Flames, Steve can’t get the knowledge out of his brain: how deeply unhappy he is on his own, how much that one small conversation meant to him. Part of him wishes he could go back to blissful ignorance, and the other part just wants to find someone to fill the void.

His last shred of dignity allows him to keep from trying to make that someone be Lightning, or Flames, or whichever embodied projection of needs he’s falling in love with. But it doesn’t keep him from watching Lightning’s vids. It’s almost like torture, locking the door and jerking off with the guy he imagines telling him _ don’t let your old man’s opinions carry any weight.  _

He needs to burst the bubble. He needs a rude awakening to remind him that he  _ isn’t  _ falling for a camboy, he’s falling for what he wishes the camboy was. The camboy is just a pretty face to attach to the idea.

A pretty, pretty face.

So he does the logical thing and pays for a private show. He figures if he can see Lightning putting on his act, see how fake the whole thing is, Steve will have to get over this weird obsession. It’s purely a logical, rational plan.

When the screen switches over to private, Lightning greets him by holding up a giant, pink dildo and waggling it with a grin.

“What d’ya say, Thunder?” Lightning asks, eyes glinting wickedly. “Want to spread me open?”

Steve chokes on his fucking saliva and struggles to respond. He feels weirdly on edge—more, even, than he would be just doing this because he wanted to. Because he has something to prove now, he has an illusion to shatter, but it isn’t fucking shattering because Lightning is eye fucking the screen like Steve is in the room with him, and his acting is way too fucking good, and Steve  _ wants  _ this.

_ Fuck yeah _ , Steve writes, because he’s in this now so he may as well finish it.

Lightning licks a long stripe up the side of the dildo, and then slowly sucks the head into his mouth. He closes his eyes and leans back, a deep moan rumbling from his chest.

He pulls off with a pop. “Good idea.” Like it’s Steve’s suggestion. Like Steve has any power over this whole situation.

Lightning leans back against the wall behind his bed, no headboard, and spreads his legs. He’s already naked, already palming himself although there’s no need judging by how goddamn hard he is. Steve’s dick twitches, interested despite the hammering of his heart and the strange voice in his head telling him this needs to stop.

Lightning’s hand drifts lower, and he slips two lubed fingers inside himself. It’s obvious now that he’s already done this today; the fingers glide inside without any resistance, and Steve can’t help the sound that drops from his mouth.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” Lightning murmurs, playing up the act, making Steve feel like he’s really there.

It works, but instead of making him harder, his dick softens. Steve frowns, heart thudding, uncertain. This is what he wanted, but… the illusion isn’t shattering. Instead, he just feels like shit for wanting the dream so hard it won’t break. God, he can imagine being in the room with Lightning, sliding wet fingers inside so deep Lightning aches from it. He can imagine the way Lightning’s mouth tips open, just for Steve, gasping on each twist of his fingers.

“I’ve got to be quiet,” Lightning says with a chuckle. “Might wake my roommates.”

Flashes of memory bombard Steve’s mind.

_ Don’t let daddy hear. _

_ I thought I had daddy issues. _

Fuck. Steve can’t do this. He loves putting himself on show, fucking himself on camera. He even loves this, the simplicity of it, the fantasy. But he  _ wants  _ more. He wants someone here in his bed, and he can’t separate the two. Fuck, he’s pathetic. Half a friendly conversation with a goddamn stranger, and he’s already begging for more.

_ Stop _ , he writes. 

Lightning stops, fingers still pressed deep inside him, and frowns. “You want something else, sweetheart? Should we spend a little time with you, get you warmed up?"

_ No.  _

_ I mean. _

Lightning’s fingers slide out and a flash of hurt crosses his face, almost too quick to see. It’s replaced immediately by anger, but that, too, fades.

Strangely, seeing that anger is the first thing to really bring Steve back down to earth. That small sign of something human, below the professional mask,  _ finally  _ breaks through Steve’s desperate wish that this isn’t just a fantasy. Because it clearly isn’t. He pissed Lightning off, hurt him, but Lightning can’t show that because showing those sorts of emotions would mean fewer tips. Which means what Steve is seeing  _ isn’t real. _

“What do you mean?” Lightning purrs, sitting up slowly and propping his elbows on his thighs, on full display. He’s completely unashamed, and the sudden loss of blood to Steve’s brain can understand why.

But Lightning has a point. What  _ does  _ he mean? Fuck, he should have just left. Should have claimed a flaky internet connection and sent a huge tip, because now he’s got a hot, upset camboy staring at the screen, even if he won’t show it, wondering what he did wrong. And Steve has to somehow explain that it wasn’t anything Lightning did, it’s all Steve. If Steve had a private session go badly, he’d feel like shit; he needs to know Lightning won’t take this with him.

_ It’s me. _

Lightning laughs, loud and surprised. “Sweetheart, we aren’t breaking up.” He pulls a thoughtful face. “Or do you mean you’re having a little trouble…” He makes an obscene gesture with his index finger, rising it slowly upwards. Then he grins. “Because I can help with that.”

_ My dick works fine, asshole. _

The laughter is tinged with meanness, now, and Steve hurries to explain.

_ I’m a camboy too, and I’m falling for a client who buys me a lot. _

He lies a little, tries to make it sound less pathetic than ‘I’m obsessed with a guy I spoke to once who saw through my bullshit in five minutes of jerking off when no one else has seen through it in twenty years’. He isn’t sure he succeeds.

_ Thought I’d buy a private session with my fave camboy to remind myself this whole thing is a lie, but it’s not working. It’s just messing with my head. _

He winks to send the compliment home, tries to cater to Lightning’s ego and mend what he ruined, but Lightning doesn’t seem to notice. As he reads, Lightning’s frown deepens, his dick slowly flagging between his legs. Steve’s eyes still drop to it, and despite everything they’re saying, he wants it in his mouth, wants to push Lightning back on the bed and suck him until he’s hard again.

But in a strange way, knowing that, and knowing Lightning kind of knows now too, even if he doesn’t know the details, makes it easier. Steve wants someone. He doesn’t have anyone. Full stop.

“I get that, man.”

Steve blinks in surprise as Lightning leans back into the pillows and lights a cigarette. He pulls the blankets across his thighs, hiding just enough to be semi-decent and nowhere near enough to be casual.

_ Yeah? _

Lightning snorts. “Of course. We’re only human.”

_ You ever fallen for someone like this? _

“Nah. Not my style.” Lightning shakes his head and then grins, a little feral around the edges. “But my style isn’t what you’d call normal, so don’t blame yourself.” The mask slips a little further, and he stares down at the hand holding the cigarette, something unreadable in his expression. “You’ve gotta separate yourself from the product, man. Sex is the product. Not you.” He shrugs, still not looking at the camera. “And sometimes you let a little of you out into the product, and that’s okay. We need that shit, too. We’re only human.”

Steve gapes at the screen. His pulse races, and for one terrifying moment he thinks this is going to be it, this is the moment he falls for Lightning for real. No going back.

But then the feeling fades, and he realises he’s fine. He isn’t head over heels. 

He actually feels better.

_ Thanks. That really helped. _

“No worries.” Lightning grins, takes another long drag, and blows the smoke towards the screen. “You want that fuck now or what?”

_ I’ll pass, but I’ll tip ya for the couch therapy. _

Lightning winks. “Gotta diversify in this industry.”

Steve tips him high and hovers over the close button. He doesn’t quite want to leave, not because he’s obsessed or because he’s a weirdo. Just because he wants this closeness with someone. Because he’s human.

“Have fun out there, Thunder,” Lightning says just before he switches off the camera.

Steve grins and decides to do just that.

*

When Steve goes back to college, he has a new roommate. The only reason he knows this is because Tommy texts him to say there’s a party in his new room tonight, and there are shitty metal posters all above the wall on what used to be Tommy’s bed.

Steve sighs and hopes his new roommate disappears as often as Tommy does, particularly because now Steve has a  _ professional  _ reason for needing the room alone. Maybe he can wrangle something about rostered study times. Or maybe he can be a really annoying roommate so that whoever he’s partnered with cracks it on the first day and barely returns.

The key rattles in the lock, and Steve plasters on a smile, turning to say ‘hi’ and hoping the guy isn’t a nutcase. But when he sees him, he freezes.

Lightning stares back at him, blond curls tied into a bun at the base of his neck and an expression of such quickly masked horror on his face that Steve has to fight back the urge to check his B.O. Then, he realises he’s wearing a pink polo shirt and chinos, so, okay, maybe the guy isn’t an asshole, but he is a snob.

And he’s Lightning.

Steve’s heart races so hard he thinks he might throw up, and he misses the first few seconds of their introduction.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asks, voice weak.

“I said my name’s Billy.” Lightning— _ Billy _ —sticks his hand out, and Steve shakes it, his entire body numb to the whole exchange.

“Steve,” he says, when the silence has stretched too long.

Billy flinches, something complicated running across his face, and pulls his hand back. “Don’t go through my shit,” he says gruffly, dropping the last two bags onto his bed and then rummaging through one of them. “And I won’t touch yours. If you want the room alone, just stick a sock on the handle and I’ll go somewhere else.”

That answers Steve’s concern, and a fresh jolt of horror races through him as he realises  _ exactly why  _ Billy needs to implement that rule. Realises that it’s for the same reason as Steve. His dick chooses the worst possible moment to clue into the situation and start to stiffen.

He’s going to be sharing a room with  _ Lightning _ .

“Got it.”

Introductions aside, Billy shoves his bags to the end of the bed, sticks in his earbuds and lies down with his eyes shut. Steve stares at him for several long seconds, and then runs out of the room, leaving his bags half-unpacked on the bed behind him.

After that, it becomes pretty clear that Billy hates him. Which is fine with Steve, honestly, because the thought of being friends with Billy when he spent an entire summer jerking off to him—god, he almost jerked off  _ with  _ him—makes Steve’s stomach churn with so much guilt he can barely focus. He stops watching Lightning’s vids for weeks, but the longer it goes, the closer he gets to caving in. It’s pathetic.

Even though the system for getting the dorm room alone is very clear, Steve can’t bring himself to do it, and so for the first few weeks back, he only uploads the backlog of vids he took before he left his parents house. Jerking off in front of the mirror, by the pool in the backyard, in his BMW—that one gets a  _ lot  _ of comments. He makes a mental note that bratty rich kid sells.

Flames starts commenting again.

He hadn’t appeared for a while, not since Steve went back to school, and Steve had only noticed absently because he was too distracted by Billy. Billy, who turns out to be Lightning, who turns out to be Billy Hargrove, Major Asshole With A Chip On His Shoulder. 

Billy, who somehow still makes Steve hard without even trying.

His resolve not to watch Lightning’s vids continues to fade, so he tries to fill the gap by talking to Flames again instead. Now that he’s living with Lightning, he’s in absolutely no danger of mixing up fantasy and reality. Reality has smacked him hard in the face, and the anonymity of his relationship with Flames weirdly turns into a blessing instead of a curse. He isn’t worried he’s going to fall for Flames—not when he has a real life wet dream sleeping in the bed beside him.

_ Nice car,  _ is all Flames says on his BMW vid, followed by dozens of water droplet emojis. Except they make Steve laugh, unlike all the other emojis that fill the chat.

He sends back,  _ I’ll take you for a ride in it _ , remembering what Lightning— _ Billy _ —said about separating himself from the product. He can make sex the product. If a little of himself falls into it, too, he still knows he can pull it back.

_ I’ll take you for a better ride, rich boy. _

Steve’s stomach jolts with desire, and before he knows it, he’s crossing the room, sticking a sock on the door, and opening his laptop. Fuck it. He’s waited so long, and he’s out of backlog, and he wants this. 

He starts a live vid, sprawled back on his dorm room bed, still in his tracksuit pants while his hand slips inside and slowly starts pumping his cock.

The room starts to fill, and Steve half-closes his eyes and smiles, teasing, waiting. It doesn’t take long. Flames appears, and within seconds he’s put in a bid.

Steve’s heart stammers. Fuck, it’s nice to be wanted. It doesn’t mean anything more, it’s just a fantasy, but shit, it’s something.

“Hey there,” he says when the room is empty of everyone but Flames. He slides his tracksuit pants down his thighs and frees his dick, watching the screen as it bounces hard against his stomach. He grips it and strokes, holding it tall so Flames can see. “Is it alright if I start?” He squeezes himself and arches his back, emphasizes how much he wants this.

He hopes Flames tells him what he’s doing as well, wants to know someone else is enjoying it, too.

_ Babe, you’re on your own on this one. I’m just here for the viewing pleasure. _

Steve tilts his head to the side, eyebrow quirked. “Huh?” He isn’t worried; Flames doesn’t sound uninterested. But Steve doesn’t get why he wouldn’t be able to at least join in quietly.

_ I’m in class. _

“Holy shit.” Steve can’t help the whisper that falls from his lips.

_ Hahahah don’t worry, no one can see. _

Steve hadn’t even thought of that, but he appreciates the reassurance. All he can think of is Tommy’s prank, but surely Flames wouldn’t do that to him. Still, the idea that he  _ could  _ makes Steve flag a little, a flush of heat rising in his chest.

A picture appears in the chat: an almost empty lecture hall, where Flames is clearly sitting up the back on his own. Steve can see the data projector, and there’s nothing but slides on it.

He huffs a laugh. “You scared the shit out of me for a second.”

_ You thought I was sharing you around the room? _

Steve’s dick twitches, and he files the thought away for later. Another fantasy to explore, maybe. “That might not be so bad,” he hums thoughtfully.

It occurs to him to correct himself immediately, just in case Flames takes him seriously and puts the vid up on the projector, but Flames sends back,  _ You should share me instead _ , and Steve loses the ability to talk.

“You’d like that, huh?” he says after a few seconds. He pauses and strips off his shirt, throwing it over the laptop in a move he stole from Lightning. “Maybe I should. You ever fucked someone in a moving car, before?”

He doesn’t know why he says it. His brain is just stuck on Flames’s reaction to the BMW, and suddenly Steve is making up shit that never happened. Fantasies he hasn’t had a chance to explore.

_ While I was driving? _

“No.” Steve shakes his head, lowers his voice. “While someone else was.”

His hips give an involuntary thrust upwards as he imagines fucking Billy in the backseat of his BMW while Tommy drives. Imagines Tommy sneaking glances in the rearview. Imagines Tommy palming himself and trying not to crash. 

It’s the first time he’s ever allowed himself to imagine he’s fucking Billy. Even when Billy was just Lightning, Steve never really gave into the fantasy—was too aware of its impossibility to get caught up on it. It’s different, now. Now, it could be real.

If only Steve didn’t feel like such a creep for wanting it.

_ Damn, you’re a kinky son of a bitch. _

Steve huffs a laugh and spreads his legs, giving a better view. “Did you doubt it?” He speeds up and settles into the story, into the fantasy. “It’s not like this, where you can forget you’re public. At any moment, someone could look in and see you. Tommy’s listening the whole time, even though he can’t join in.” The name slips out, makes the fantasy sound real—a past that never happened, a future that never will. “You’re on display, but… it’s intimate, too.”

_ You sound like you’ve fucked in public a lot.  _

The flush on Steve’s chest rises. “A bit,” he confesses, not quite a lie, not quite the truth. “Would you let me fuck you in the backseat?”

Steve knows he doesn’t have the same style as Lightning, can’t keep that distance between himself and the audience while still making them feel special. A little too much of himself leaks in, but it’s only fantasy. At least he knows that, now. And Flames knows it too, since he’s a camboy as well.

_ We probably could triple our viewers if we did that on cam together. _

The whine that drops from Steve’s throat isn’t for show. It never even occurred to him, but people do that, don’t they? For a second, the image of Lightning spread out in the backseat of Steve’s BMW becomes very, very real.

_ Who are you picturing right now, babe? Who just got you hot? _

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Steve murmurs, a thin sheen of sweat rising along his collar. “Are you ready?”

_ To watch you lose yourself? Always. _

Steve comes. He makes it a good one, barely even has to try. He knows it looks good when he makes it real, that the parts of him that blend with the product, with the sex he’s selling, isn’t a flaw, so long as he knows where the line rests.

He opens his eyes, mouth curved into a lazy grin that reflects back to him from the screen, but before he can say something brash and sign off, he realises there’s an image in the chat. He opens it.

Long fingers grip a hard, thick cock, hidden beneath black tracksuit pants and the additional barrier of a lecture hall desk. Above his thighs, the chiselled line of a vee marks where Flames’s shirt has ridden up a little. The guy is fucking ripped. 

Steve doesn’t mean to, but he gasps, the sound slipping from his mouth before he can take it back.

_ You’re not the only exhibitionist here, babe. _

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Are you really doing that now?”

_ I’ll wait.  _ Flames pauses, and then:  _ It’s gonna be a long afternoon. I’ll have to get you back for this some day. _

Shivers run down Steve’s spine. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, and logs out of the chat.

He tidies his bed quickly, gets changed, opens the window, just in case Billy is back from his classes early. Steve doesn’t really know his schedule. 

It’s late in the afternoon when Billy reappears, and all he does is give Steve a quick once-over—eyes glittering with curiosity Steve doesn’t understand—and then looks away.

*

Steve starts watching Lightning’s vids again. It feels like a dirty secret at first, particularly because Billy is laid out on his dorm bed, only feet from where Steve sleeps. Steve can see his alarm clock in the shot, bright red numbers telling him exactly what times Billy records. Exactly which of Steve’s classes are used as a convenient scheduling tool.

The knowledge makes him so fucking hard he barely lasts seconds, the first time he watches. He keeps glancing over at the empty bed, at the place where Billy fucked himself open with his fingers, where he moaned and came all over his chest. Steve doesn’t even know what to make of it. He can’t think, can’t figure out if what he’s doing is wrong or if it doesn’t matter because they’re  _ both  _ camboys which makes them, like, colleagues or something. They could star in a vid together if they wanted to, it would be totally normal.

Except that Billy won’t look at him for longer than three seconds, won’t talk to him. Obviously hates him. Sometimes, Steve will feel eyes on him from the other side of the room, will look up to see Billy staring. But the intensity of his gaze quickly turns to anger, just like the one time Steve was in a private room with him, and Steve reminds himself Billy is just mercurial, isn’t interested at all.

Besides, Billy always turns away.

Steve watches a vid where Billy is perched on the tiny desk between their beds, basketball shorts halfway down his thighs while he props himself back on one hand brings himself off, and he decides not to feel guilty anymore. It’s not like he asked Billy to be his roommate, or even like he’s stalking the guy to try and turn their weird connection into something more. He’s given Billy every ounce of space possible, respected every boundary. If he also happens to get off on the videos Billy publishes publically, that’s within his right. And he tips high, so, really, he’s doing Billy a favour.

To let off steam, and to pretend he isn’t actually pretty bummed that Billy hates him, Steve lets Flames convince him to go live while he’s in the dorm bathrooms downstairs. He locks the stalll door, unzips his fly, and angles his phone so only his dick and most of his stomach is visible. 

“Do you give good head, Flames?” he asks, voice a low rasp while he listens for the sound of anyone coming in.

_ The fucking best. _

Steve grins, lets the smile come into his voice. “I bet you do. Bet you’d be great on your knees right now.”

_ Why don’t we pretend? _

Steve freezes, licks his lips, slows down. “Yeah?”

Flames sends him a blurry photo in a dark room. All Steve can see is two naked legs braced wide on a carpeted floor. “Fuck yeah,” he breathes. “You take it so good, sweetheart.” The endearment drops from his lips without trying, because he’s thinking of Billy. Imagining Flames  _ is  _ Billy, even though they’re on opposite sides of the world, and the darkened room proves they’re in different timezones.

_ You know I do. _

Steve speeds up, lets the empty bathroom fill with the soft sound of his moans, lets Flames think it’s all for him. Part of it is, part of it always is. That’s how fantasies go, that’s why Steve loves this. He gets to give a little bit of himself over and over and over, and in return, he gets a bit of someone else.

The ache in his chest still lingers, still wants more, but he shoves it down.

He comes all over his stomach, lets Flames see it drip down before he roughly wipes most of it away with toilet paper and then lets his shirt fall down to cover the rest.

When he gets back to his dorm room, the curtains are closed and Billy is lying back on his bed, headphones on, eyes shut. But he cracks one open to study Steve as he enters, an incomprehensible and feral grin quirking his lips as his eyes land—impossibly—on the area beneath his shirt that still has come.

A flush of heat rises along Steve’s neck—embarrassment that maybe Billy knows, shame that he wants him to, shame that he wishes it was him. 

He snaps.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Billy’s grin only grows wider. “Nothing at all, pretty boy.”

The phrase rings a bell, but Steve can’t think why. He’s never heard anyone else say it—certainly not Billy, because the way his gravelly tones drag across the syllables is something Steve will never forget.

When Billy closes his eyes again, Steve punches his pillow three times, throws open the curtains, and sits down to study at the desk.

*

Billy films his next video on Steve’s bed. Steve stares at the familiar bedspread, the pillow, the bright red numbers of his alarm clock with his mouth open, heart racing. It can’t be. There’s no  _ way _ . Billy drops his head back, grips the headboard and moans as he thrusts up into his hand.

Steve darts a glance back at the door, making sure it’s locked. Then he looks over at his bed, innocent sheets still rumpled from Steve’s sleep. When did Billy do this?

He glances at the clock in the video: ten am. Steve only has one morning class this semester, which means Steve was at his Psych lecture, which means Billy did this  _ yesterday _ .

He shakes his head, dazed, trying to tune back into the impossible thing that’s happening on the screen before him.

“Bet you like me like this,” Billy moans, a pretty flush rising along his chest. “Bet you love it.”

Steve whimpers. He shoves his chair back enough that he can lean backwards in it, thumbing open the top of his jeans. Billy should be out for the afternoon, since he always has a lecture at this time, so Steve doesn’t have to be cautious. He slips his hand into his pants and palms himself in time with Billy.

The sheets crinkle beneath Billy’s weight as he stretches back on the bed, and Steve realises he  _ slept  _ in those sheets last night. Holy shit. He has to bite down on his lip to keep a truly embarrassing sound from escaping.

“Think you could ride me all night, pretty boy?”

Steve’s brain short-circuits.  _ Pretty boy.  _ Billy called him that last week.

He’s lying on Steve’s bed.

What the  _ fuck _ ?

Before he can freak out and convince himself it doesn’t mean anything, Billy turns a little in the shot, his head tipping just slightly to the side so his eyes can land on the framed photo tucked into the alcove by Steve’s bed. The photo isn’t visible to the camera, but what  _ is _ visible is the way Billy bites down on his lip, expression heated as he stares hungrily at the person in the photo.

The photo is of Steve and Robin. Steve somehow doesn’t think Billy is calling Robin  _ pretty boy. _

And just like that, it hits him, where he’s heard that phrase before: Flames. One of the first times they spoke. Holy.  _ Shit. _ But it can’t be… Flames’s profile is set to Australia.

For the first time, it occurs to Steve—not without a sense of embarrassment—that people on the internet can lie.

The door handle rattles. Steve is well practiced at tabbing out of his screen and shunting his chair beneath the desk so his open fly isn’t visible. By the time Billy walks through the door, Steve’s laptop is muted and open on his assignment.

“Hey,” he says to Billy.

Billy blinks in surprise—they don’t normally greet each other, since Billy is such an irredeemable  _ asshole.  _ But… if Billy is Flames, it makes sense now, why he is the way he is. He felt how Steve did, watching Lightning’s vids and knowing they were roommates. He felt  _ guilty _ . 

“Hey,” Billy grunts, dumping his bag on the bed. He narrows his eyes, flicking from Steve to the laptop and back again. “‘Sup?”

“Not much.” Steve chews on the inside of his lip, fighting the urge to laugh or scream or something—he has no idea what this feeling is bubbling inside him. “Good class?”

Billy snorts. “Got cancelled, so yeah. Best kind of class.”

Steve drums his fingers on the desk, heart racing. He has to end this now, but what can he say?  _ Hey, Lightning. How’s it going? _ He’ll get fucking punched.

“Caught you with your pants down?”

He turns to see Billy grinning, hovering over his bed with his eyes fixed to Steve’s laptop. Steve glances at it and realises that even though Billy can’t see the name of the vid, he can see the logo of the website on the tab. Fuck. He must think Steve was  _ recording _ .

When Steve turns back, there’s unmistakable heat in Billy’s eyes. They dart to Steve’s jeans, still covered by the desk, but obviously undone if you look for it. Billy  _ looks  _ for it. How the hell didn’t Steve see this before? Billy licks his lips, swallows thickly, and then shakes his head, covering the whole thing with a gritty laugh that does terrible, terrible things to Steve’s dick. “You’re meant to hang a sock on the door, remember?”

He immediately goes to stick in his earbuds and lie down, but Steve interrupts before he can.

“Are you FeeltheFlames?”

Fuck worrying about what to say; when it comes down to it, Steve has always been pretty straightforward.

Billy freezes, earbuds halfway to his ears, and stares at Steve in horror. He tries to mask it, but it’s too late. “What the fuck does  _ that _ mean?” His voice is gruff, aggressive, but Steve sees through it.

He considers dragging it out, making Billy suffer a little, since he made  _ Steve  _ suffer by ignoring him for freaking months. But he feels bad, and he wants this conversation to end with Billy face down in his bed while Steve fucks him raw, so… making Billy feel like shit is counter productive.

“I’m Thunderstruck, if it helps.” He swivels the chair around, not bothering to hide the fact his fly is undone. His dick is hidden, but it’s obvious. Obvious what he was doing.

Billy flinches, eyes wide. He opens his mouth several times, but shuts it again without speaking. Finally, he says, “So you  _ have _ watched my vids?”

Steve snorts. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re why I even started.”

A steady pink flush rises along Billy’s collar, peeking out from beneath the grey Led Zeppelin shirt. It makes Steve think of the vid he started watching, of the flush that crept up Billy’s chest as he fucked himself on Steve’s bed.

“No way,” Billy mutters and sits up on the edge of the bed. “Fuckin’ serious?”

Steve stands up, doesn’t bother to do up his fly, and walks over to stand between Billy’s legs. Billy looks up at him, and just as quickly as it appeared, the mortification on his face fades. Instead, he grins and licks his tongue across his lips. A shiver of desire spikes through Steve as Billy leans back, propping himself up on his elbows and letting his shirt ride up his stomach.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Billy asks, running his eyes slowly over Steve’s body.

“Why didn’t you tell  _ me _ ?”

Billy shrugs, and for a second there’s a hint of that anger Steve’s seen twice now. He feels the absurd urge to push that anger, to work out what it hides. “Thought it was just a fantasy.”

Steve’s dick fucking twitches, and he gives up this stupid game they’re playing—have  _ been  _ playing for months, neither of them brave enough to find out what’s real. He reaches out and presses a single finger into Billy’s chest, pushing him back onto the bed.

Billy drops, and Steve crawls on top of him, bracing himself on either side of Billy’s head. 

“I think it’s both,” Steve says.

Billy grins beneath him, reaching up to grab ahold of Steve’s wrist, guiding his hand into Billy’s hair. Making him tug on it. When Steve does, lightly at first and then firmer, fiercer, Billy moans and shuts his eyes, murmuring, “Then give me your best fantasy, pretty boy.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Steve kisses him slowly, taking a second to believe that this is  _ real _ . It’s weird, it doesn’t feel like he’s kissing Lightning. It feels like he’s kissing  _ Billy _ .

And that’s so much fucking better.

Billy bites Steve’s lip. Hard. And then drops his arms back onto the bed, above his head, to clench the blankets. “You wanna tell me what you were doing in here before I got back?” He asks with a wicked grin.

Steve huffs a laugh against Billy’s skin, peeling his shirt up higher and over his head. His stomach is so light it feels like he’s drunk, and the sound of Billy’s breath growing more ragged only makes it worse. Better. “I think you know.”

There’s a flash of white teeth, smug and unrepentant. “Sorry I messed up your sheets.”

Steve bites down on Billy’s neck, and Billy shudders. Laughs into the breathless space between them.

“I’m falling off the bed,” he points out, planting his feet and grinding his hips up against Steve. His ass is hanging over the edge of the mattress.

“Yeah?” Steve grinds down slowly, forcing Billy to push up if he doesn’t want to slide off completely. Forcing him to fight back a little. “I suppose you want to be on top?”

“Fuck no.” Billy breathes against his ear, biting it. “Didn’t you learn anything from watching me on cam?”

Steve blinks, pulls back just enough to stare down into blue, blue eyes. “You want to bottom?”

Billy thrusts upwards, making Steve whimper. “Flip me over, sweetheart. Find out.”

“Fucking hell.” Steve can’t help laughing a little. And then a thought hits him, a stupid, terribly-timed thought. “Does that mean…” he says slowly, fighting back the urge to giggle like a kid. “That your name…”

The grin drops from Billy’s face as he levels Steve with a thoroughly unimpressed glare. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“But I’m about to ride the—”

“I swear to fucking god, Harrington.”

“Although  _ technically  _ you’re doing all the—”

“Say it. I fucking dare you.”

Steve bursts out laughing and crawls backwards, giving Billy space to slide up the bed. Despite the grumpy act, he’s grinning, and there’s a steady flush across his chest when he rips off his shirt and throws it behind Steve, hitting him in the face as Steve hurries to undress.

“Don’t know how you didn’t realize,” Billy says with a grin. “RidetheLightning. FeeltheFlames. It’s the same fucking song. That’s why I didn’t think you knew it was me. You would’ve said something.”

“I don’t know the lyrics to that music.” Steve laughs, reaching for the lube. “It’s so fucking loud.”

“Jesus.” Billy shakes his head and lifts his hips to slide his jeans off. Bites his lip.

Steve catches Billy’s jeans in mid-air and throws them at his feet, one eyebrow raised. There’s a flash of heat in Billy’s eyes at his expression, and then Steve no longer has time to analyze anything, because Billy is  _ there _ .

“Fuck yeah, babe,” Steve whispers into his ear as he slides two lubed fingers between Billy’s legs. “Spread ‘em.”

Billy hisses, head thrown back and a low moan issuing from his throat. He pushes down on Steve’s fingers and begs him.

“Pull my hair, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Promise I won’t bite.”

“Don’t believe you,” Steve mutters, and pulls it anyway. He leans down and swallows the moan from Billy’s lips, deepening the kiss while Billy shudders beneath him.

“Remember the vid in your car?” Billy asks in a low voice once Steve pulls back. “And the story you told me after?”

“Fucking in the backseat?” Steve slides his fingers free and shifts in between Billy’s legs, pushing inside in one long stroke.

Billy’s jaw goes slack, blissed-out, and he nods. “Fuck that was hot.”

“ _ You’re  _ fucking hot,” Steve corrects. 

He twists his fingers in Billy’s hair, pulling so that his head drops backwards and exposes the long line of his throat. Shadow from the lamp cuts across his Adam’s apple, trails down to his nipples. Steve slows down just enough so he can adjust his angle, bend down, and suck one of those nipples into his mouth.

“Too much talking, Steve,” Billy protests, the breathlessness of his voice proving it a lie. “Fuck me already.”

Steve groans, eyes closed for a second as he struggles not to end this too quickly just from the sound of Billy’s voice, of Lightning’s voice saying his name. He drops the hand from Billy’s hair, braces himself against the bed, and begins to fuck him. The headboard slams into the wall, knocking violently into the plaster, and Steve suddenly remembers it was Flames that watched him fuck himself silently while his parents were downstairs. It was  _ Billy  _ who watched him.

Jesus, they could have been doing this ages ago.

“Fuck, you should have said something earlier, asshole,” Steve groans, already so close.

Billy laughs, the sound rattled by the force of Steve’s thrusts, by the whimper caught in the back of Billy’s throat. “Upset you didn’t get what you want for once, rich boy?”

Steve deliberately slows down, moving his hand to Billy’s wrists and holding him against the bed. “I’ll finish by myself if you’re going to be a brat.”

Billy doesn’t struggle beneath Steve’s hands, lets him hold him there. “Only if I can watch.”

Steve’s answering thrust, slow and hard, makes Billy’s eyes roll back in his head. “Fuck yeah,” he breathes. “Right there.”

Steve does it again and again, a steady rhythm that gets faster as Billy’s breathing grows less steady. Until Billy is begging him silently, lips moving around a whispered _please_ , over and over, like he refuses to say it out loud but he can’t help it anyway.

Then, Billy arches and cries out, and Steve isn’t far behind, and after several long seconds they collapse back onto the bed. It takes ages for Steve’s breathing to slow down again, for his pulse to steady. He feels Billy patting around blindly in the darkening room, eyes still shut, as he searches for something.

His hand finds Steve, and he intwines their fingers together and stops searching. Steve’s heart skips a beat.

“You good there, pretty boy?” Billy asks softly.

When Steve looks up, he can faintly see blue eyes watching him in the darkness. “Yeah,” he murmurs in response. “You?”

Billy nods, curls dragging across the pillow, but there’s a crease between his eyebrows. After a pause, he says, “Ask me again.”

This time Steve frowns. “Ask what?”

“If I’ve ever fallen for a client like this.” His words drop quietly into the silence of the room, and Steve can hear his own breath hitch.

“I thought it wasn’t your style,” he whispers.

Billy grins. “Still isn’t.” Before Steve has a chance to be disappointed, he adds, “But falling for spoiled, rich, arrogant camboys is.”

Steve laughs, giddy with something he thinks he might be able to name, if he’s brave enough. He shuffles closer on the pillow and lets his eyes fall closed, listens to both their breathing as it slows. The last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that he doesn’t have to go searching anymore, to have someone to run to, to touch. 

This is the thing he’d been missing, and, now, he’s found it.


End file.
